


Like Swimming

by Mandibles



Series: In which I try to cope with the Colton Thing [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being with Derek feels a lot like swimming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Swimming

It’s like swimming, he thinks. Though, really, it’s not the actual swimming he’s reminded of; it’s the being underwater part. He’s on the swim team, so naturally he’s shown off his lung capacity in the past, cutting his way lower and deeper into the water until he reached the very bottom of the pool and just say there for as his he could hold out. It’s something like that, being down there with his eyes squeezed shut, all muted sounds and water curling around his ears.

There was peace in those moments, in this empty plain where. Some fear and panic, too, but peace.

And, he feels it here, as well, panic pressing down his chest as he wriggles helplessly in an endless expanse of black, waterless water. Only, the panic isn’t connected to desperate need to inhale or even the fact that he’s bound and helpless, arms going numb beneath him. No, it’s the lumpy, makeshift mattress beneath him, the sweet stink of charred wood, of charred—charred flesh, probably, that makes his skin prickle, his cock pulse, with anxiety and excitement.

The thought that Derek Hale is out there somewhere, out in the world that Jackson can’t see or hear, that honestly scares the living shit out of him, leaving him stupidly hard and trembling. But, he’s not actually doing anything; he’s been sitting here for so long—Seconds? Days? Years?—and he doesn’t know what he’s—

Something scuffs dangerously close to a nipple—a finger, maybe, thick, squared—and Jackson jerks, gasps at the shock of a simple touch.

“Derek? Derek, what—” The finger returns, over his lips this time. Jackson obeys the silent command and quiets.

It stays there a moment longer before, satisfied, it begins burning a tortuously slow, _seconddaysyears_ -long path down, over the hump of his bottom lip, his chin, the curve of his throat, to his clavicle, and his chest. His focus narrows to that one single point of _something—_ touch, Derek—and he shudders when it veers from the path. It pinches his nipple tightly and he hums, arches.

“Derek,” he breathes, realizing his own pleas, his own heartbeat, rush of blood, are the only things he can hear. There’s something terribly lonely about that. “Derek, please, please— _fuck_!” Sharp, burning stabs where shoulder meets neck make him whine tightly; the cry only increases the burn, deepens it, and his cock pulses, a disgusting amount of precum drooling from it. “Christ, Derek, stop! Just—just—Please. Please, I need you.”

The pain retracts and Jackson’s burst of relief is lost in the bloody tang of the lips, the mouth that seals over his. He strains into the kiss with all of his might, teeth clacking and tongues missing mouths in his eagerness to touch and be touched. Like how the hand on his jaw touches him now, callouses catching on his skin, sending every muscle in him into spasms as restless nerve endings burst into life.

There are things being said somewhere, and though there’s no real way to make them out, Jackson just knows the words, can see them behind his eyelids. Sex works like this for them, like breaking neck to the surface, kicking until his legs flare under him in agony. But, love is so different, this strange, tight force that curls around his neck, chokes him until his lungs are full to bursting. It’s why they do this, why they hide behind blindfolds and earplugs and stupid masks like darkness and water.

Because, love between them feels like drowning.


End file.
